Running
by TruffleWings
Summary: Takes place during the end of JFA. Oneshot. Franziska von Karma has had a lot of problems, and they just don't seem to relent. Self-introspection.


A/N Well, I've written three angst fics about prosecutors, so why not another? Not that this has as much angst as, say, Edgeworth or Klavier.

Not a von Karma.

She was not a von Karma.

But then, who was she?

Franziska ran through the rain, cursing as the puddles of mud and grime caught onto her boots and leggings. It hadn't exactly been raining, not even drizzling, when she had walked out of the courtroom, but here she was, soaked to the skin.

Unfortunately, the roaring of the rain seemed to break open the vault of shame and secrecy in her mind, rather than shutting out undesirable thoughts.

Imperfection.

_Losing_ in court to Phoenix Wright. Fool of all fools.

Finally taking temporary shelter under a sturdy birch, the blue-haired woman cast her eyes round for any vehicles or convenient buildings.

_Pitter-patter… pitter-patter…_

The rain jumped up from the pavement like white sparks, springing up and down like tiny fireworks. It didn't seem like it was about to relent any time soon; the storm was, perhaps, just beginning. From under the tree, however, she could know hear a more rhythmic pattern through the crash of rain.

A gale whipped round her, scattering her thoughts like seeds on a plain.

Forever living in the shadows… cobwebs... dusty, unwanted, unused.

Miles Edgeworth skipped ahead, her father stared down, she looked up, and then forward, and now…

Now, she didn't think she could see anymore.

A coherent thought finally passed through her mind, if not entirely logical. Blind, she was blind. A bit like the time when she first heard Phoenix Wright convicted her father of murder.

A clap of thunder and a flash of lightning broke apart her thoughts into fragments once more.

Fools, all of them! Miles Edgeworth, in particular. Shamed the von Karma name…

Franziska didn't like losing, but she disliked being taken lightly as well. Miles had slowed down, and she had caught up, surpassing him, and still, _still_, he looked at her with those infuriating eyes, _that she didn't understand._ As if he were saying that he had chosen a different path, not slowing down, but speeding up, and Franziska was merely lost, having taken a wrong turning.

The teachings that had been drilled into her brain since before she could remember; did she not understand them?

_(Stop… Stop belittling me! Foolishly foolish foolhardy fool of fools!)_

She ground her teeth together, clenching her hand into a fist so hard that it nearly pierced through her leather gloves.

Alone, as she had always been. That was the way.

All through her childhood, she had been alone. Perhaps not in the physical sense, for a maid or her father would always be nearby, but nevertheless, she was, by nature, solitary. With a firm hand on her shoulder to guide her on the right path, she walked it alone in the darkness of shadows.

The figure that had perpetually been with her (physically, at least), however, was… indisposed. No, Manfred von Karma, father and mentor, had left.

All thoughts of fleeing the rain had left Franziska, and she merely stood there, staring down at her empty hand. She had long discarded her whip. Yes, she had been alone, as alone as could be, but the one companion she had, if any, was a long leather cord. A bit pathetic, come to think of it, but it had been more faithful than any others she could see, and even seemed to act of its own accord, striking out at all the right times.

So what did it all mean now? Miles Edgeworth had returned, but she knew he would disappear once again, as he always had in her life.

Manfred von Karma was behind bars, and when he wasn't, though he was a constant beacon in her life, he wasn't much of a companion; simply a father, she supposed, though she had not met many other fathers.

As a child, she had been kept alone, and as of late, she had not bothered to get to know many else. Scruffy was a mere detective, faithful, to be sure, but a fool as they all were.

The only other person to have incited such a rage and personal anger in her was Phoenix Wright, the insufferable fool, and he was most definitely _not_ a friend, an acquaintance, at best.

And now, she had given up on her whip. It nagged at her, and it felt as though she were missing a limb or a vital organ, something she kept with her perpetually—until now. Finally, _she_ had given up something, not someone she trusted giving up on her.

Rain slipped through the leaves of the canopy, falling steadily and hard upon her person.

No tears were mixed into the rain that flew down her face.

Miles Edgeworth may have rejected Manfred von Karma and his teachings, and that meant rejecting the von Karma name—fine! Fine for the fool, who had his own family name to lie back on; Miles _Edgeworth_, not Miles _von Karma_.

Franziska was nothing but Franziska _von Karma_, and proud of the von Karma lineage, proud of the prosecutorial path she was to follow, proud of the perfection that ran in her veins. She was a von Karma through and through—with that stripped away from her, what was she truly?

The thought ran throughout her mind. Every time another topic came up, it would boil down to that simple thought. That simple, little imperfect thought.

Fools, born and bred, surrounded her, choking her, extending an insufferable hand of friendship, of _understanding_—the same hateful, foolish understanding they held in their eyes like some kind of prize, and behind the fear of her whip was _pity_! Pity for what? She was practically an heiress, and with a bright, rosy future ahead as a perfect prosecutor. Franziska hated that look in their eyes, as if they knew better than her, as if _she_ was the fool. If anything, she should pity them! Pity the fools for having no perfection embedded into their very genes, pity the fools for having been cursed with eternal imperfection, while her very _destiny_, her very _fate_, was perfection, every other possibility being null, void and unthinkable.

Franziska finally let out a shiver, shaking from head to toe for an instant; what had become of her perfection? Or, for that matter, her father's perfection?

No.

What had become of the von Karma perfection?

The perfection she had been promised. The perfection that she strived, not for, but to maintain. The perfection that let her rise above the masses, proudly a von Karma, certain of what was as good as blue blood that ran through her veins.

No one was around, but it was still only rain that ran down her cheeks.

She didn't know exactly what she was _not_ crying about, only that the impact of her father's imprisonment maybe came too late, and the slip of paper that said Miles Edgeworth chose death, and the fact that Miles always seemed to be ahead, and the losses from Phoenix Wright all rose up at once and swarmed over her.

So, calmly, she tackled them one by one.

Her father was in prison. Accepted. That didn't mean his teachings were wrong—but she would re-evaluate them later. She was… confused, conflicted…

She lost to the fool Phoenix Wright. Her father had as well. Flukes, luck, the foolish fool had it all, trumping the cool expertise she had ready at hand. That… was aggravating, she had to admit, struggling to keep her temper under wraps. At the moment, she was bursting with anger fit to _kill_. A metaphor, of course. Murder was a simply ridiculous notion. Something Franziska, her father, and Miles Edgeworth all agreed on wholeheartedly. Or, rather, she had _thought _Manfred von Karma condemned it…

Miles Edgeworth… had not chosen death. He had reappeared at the Engarde trial. And yet he had returned with a new look in his eyes. A renewed look, a satisfied look—but most of all, a _pitying_ look when he looked at her.

Again, this look. Why did everyone wear it? Pathetic. The fools looked pathetic. But when they looked at her with that look, they thought _her _pathetic.

But Miles Edgeworth had retained one thing—his genius. Manfred von Karma had been a genius, his _adopted_ son had been a genius, so she was a genius. She _had_ to be, whether it be by nature or with nurture, she was a prosecutorial prodigy, and she could never _stop_. She could never relent, for _one_ second, to pause and see the scene set before her, the moment in time that she had finally come to, the achievements and pride she wore on her chest—she could only look forward at the pink silhouette that calmly strode ever-ahead, and sprint, throwing empty bravado, and strong fronts.

But could she still keep going? Was it even humanly possible to not break and tear under the pressure, even for her?

Franziska finally looked up and confirmed that the storm was abated so very slightly, determined to make a run for it. Of course, she could call someone to pick her up, but at the moment, the embarrassment and humiliation of calling for help would be too much to bear.

Had anyone been looking from above, and had the ability to see through stormy rain clouds, they would have caught a glimpse, among the drops piercing the pavement, of a blue streak across the street, zigzagging this way and that, swiftly making its way to a not-so-faraway destination.

Finally. Franziska shook her head a little, and with that tiny motion, a million water droplets _plinked!_ onto the ground, as she stepped into the building.

She shut out her own mind as she walked, dripping with water, towards her office. It was closer than the home she had bought here in America, and there was a private bathroom, as well as a spare set of clothes. Heads turned to see her stride pass, her head held high but with a dark expression upon her face. Their gaze would quickly slip from her eyes to her injured arm. She had been wounded from that last trial.

Prosecutors and detectives alike looked as though they wanted to question her appearance, but decided, for the better, to instead talk among themselves, spinning wild tales of gossip and rumor.

It may have seemed ridiculous for her to take a shower after arriving soaked from the rain, but there she was. A quick rinse and change, and she lay on the velvet and silk couch (she was never one to settle for anything less), looking up blankly at the ceiling.

Perhaps she should take a trip as Miles Edgeworth had… though not in such a ridiculously dramatic fashion. A quiet leave. She needed to return to Germany.

_(Running away?)_

Never. Never running away. A little time to think. Away from here.

It was a simple matter to get a jet, and perhaps Franziska hadn't deliberated over it long enough, but she just _knew_ she couldn't stay here.

Cue the limousine, a few awkward questions from the fool, Gumshoe, a barrage of unwanted thoughts, and she was at the airport.

Not running away, she reminded herself. Maybe… running to…

_(Running. Still running.)_

Running… running forward, as always. What human could stand to stay still? And yet, she had been running forward her whole life, more than anyone else could endure, fingers uselessly scraping the magenta, expensive fabric that she never could quite grasp, or get ahead of.

She got out of the luxury vehicle, and, most unusually, thanked the detective with a tip, walking easily into the airport with an icy demeanor and a condescending glance.

Franziska had taken everything with her, although she may have been leaving a few regrets behind. She hadn't, for one, had a proper talk with her little brother, Miles Edgeworth. It wasn't that she wanted his guidance—she scoffed at the very thought—but it was courtesy to at least say a goodbye to her sibling, even if they weren't related by blood.

Common politeness, however, was quickly rejected as a reason, and Franziska was seized by a sudden urge to leave _now_, never mind those regrets, which had been long tossed out of the window. She couldn't bear to see that new look he wore now, and she wasn't sure if she could count him as her sibling, now that the one link that had drew them together was tossed into a forgotten cell.

But more to the point, the greatest reason why she now wanted to avoid Miles Edgeworth was that she could no longer see him. He had taken a path so divergent from hers that he had disappeared into the future. Not only that, but she just couldn't keep up anymore.

_(No, she could. But she had stopped running. She had stopped trying. Who could stand it? Forever in the shadows… forever a genius; her reputation preceded her, and she could do nothing but strive to uphold the von Karma name.)_

But being in the shadows gave her the drive to try even harder, to get revenge, or, rather, to deal out humiliation to Miles Edgeworth by beating him! She had _not_ stopped running.

_(Truly? What lies…)_

Her father, gone from the public's eye, gone from many memories, his image tarnished and slaughtered and burned… Manfred von Karma, or the Manfred von Karma she knew, had died. He had died when Franziska was told he was convicted of murder. Her father had been strict, and firm, ruthless, some told her, and that was the way she liked it, but never had she dreamed that he would… that he could…

It had been a while since Franziska found herself lost for words, yet this was a prime example. Or unable to complete a sentence, even if it were within her own mind.

That he would what? That he could what?

"Where are you going… Franziska?"

No, it couldn't be…

"…! How did you know I was here…?"

For she found herself face to face with one Miles Edgeworth, cravat and all.

The look of pity in his eyes was gone, replaced by relief, and now insufferable smugness. "With this," he said, presenting the tracker.

"That's…" Once again, she was lost for words, compensating by giving him a glare.

"I heard you were planting things on a certain person," he remarked drily, and his expression changed to one of self-satisfaction. "Things like tracking devices on his _coat_, for example."

Franziska couldn't help but give a half-smile, half-smirk at her little brother's pleased expression. "Hmph. That's just like you." Perhaps a proper goodbye really was in order; perhaps those looks of pity were overestimated… "I only planted it there because he was always wearing it." Wearing that moth-bitten trench coat of his; Scruffy was a true fool, searching everywhere for the tracker… everywhere but the one place she would have planted it. "This…filthy, drab coat of his…" she continued, showing Miles Edgeworth the rumpled cloth. "I don't know how it ended up in my luggage. But it's going in the trash, I promise you that."

"Oh, that's right…" Edgeworth resumed his usual tact expression. "Speaking of that man… He told me something very interesting."

It was with another smug expression that Miles Edgeworth informed Franziska that Scruffy had reported taking four items from De Killer's hideout.

"Four items…?" Franziska asked warily.

"It seems he put the last one in his coat pocket."

"He put it in here…?" She took a quick look . "…It doesn't matter anymore. The case is already over."

Suddenly, the pink prosecutor looked to the side with a pained expression. "…What are you going to do now?"

"…That's none of your business," she snapped. She couldn't bear to tell him that she was running away.

_(Not running away, remember? Just running.)_

"Are you running away?"

It was as if he had picked out her thoughts with such ease, and Franziska started. "Shut up!" she said, enraged, in an almost-shout. "You don't understand a thing! You can't possibly know what it means to be 'Manfred von Karma's daughter'!"

"Franziska…"

But the blue-haired woman continued on a tirade, to incensed, and too wearied with her thoughts running in endless circles, to stop. Suddenly, she was desperate to let it all out, everything that had been piled onto her, everything that she kept, bottled up, inside. "So many expectations from everyone around me… expectations I must fulfill! I'm expected to win no matter what. And failure? Such a thing is not an option for me! My father was a genius. There's no doubt about that! But…" The brief glow of pride for Manfred von Karma faded, and she swallowed hard. "But me… I'm no genius. I've always know that," she revealed.

"…" Her little brother made no response, simply listening and watching her carefully.

"But I… I had to be one. I had to," she explained desperately.

"…" Again, he remained silent, then finally, "You may not be a genius like your father… But…" Miles turned to face her head on, with a firm expression on his face. "You are a prosecutor. You have and always will be."

"…!" Franziska glared at him intently, then tilted her head up in a smirk. "No, I'm not… Not anymore. I've even thrown my whip away."

_(Maybe not running away, but was she still running? It seemed as though… as though she were staying still, _fleeing_, not running, back to Germany where she would not take another case ever again. The von Karma name had already died.)_

"Speaking of that…" Mile's smirk matched hers as he held her beloved cord out. "Wright gave me this to hold onto."

How… how had that fool known?

"…" It was in silence that she snatched it away from him.

Miles turned solemn once more. "I'm going to say this again," he began, much like a teacher lecturing a student on an important point. "We prosecutors do not fight for personal honor or pride. I hope you will think deeply…" He gave her a stern glare. "At what you should be striking down with that whip."

"…You haven't changed a bit." Franziska smiled in spite of herself. "You've always… you've always left me alone and walked on ahead without me." _(So I must run…) _  
"Miles Edgeworth… I've always hated you."

Miles stayed impassive at the receiving end of both her words and her glare. "…"

"And then… Finally, my chance to take revenge on you had arrived." A godsend gift, a shortcut that would enable her to overtake him. "If I could win against that man…" An image of a spiky-haired defense attorney flashed across both prosecutors' minds. "…If I could make Phoenix Wright bow down in defeat… Then this 'girl' you left behind would have risen higher than you!"

Yes, Miles had always left her behind, between brief interludes at the von Karma mansion, he left to become the Demon Prosecutor, and she had been tossed aside, concentrating wholly on studies and impressing, starved, as she know realized, of true family bonds and love. This she did not dispute, and she was tolerant of the fact that her childhood had been stolen away, but the thing that irked and annoyed her beyond reason was the fact that an _adopted_ child of Manfred von Karma seemed to be more of a genius than her, that her father seemed to have loved him more than her because of his successes.

"That was supposed to be my 'revenge'…" she continued spitefully, unaware of the dark shadow that had long preyed upon her heart that now fell upon her face.

But Edgeworth saw it—the loneliness, the longing, the grief, the bitterness, the manifested hate, resentment, envy; he saw every bit of darkness that lurked in her soul, and scanned every single crevice that held secrets and a desperate need for _revenge_. He saw so much that he himself seemed pained, looking to the side once more, and Franziska detested the pity and sorrow in his eyes, simultaneously feeling a desperate need and relief that he'd finally listened through her woes. "I see…" Miles said.

"…You know, I can't do it…" she realized aloud, finally gaining the courage to look upon what she had been trying to deny. Running away, running to, fleeing, standing still—which movement was she doing exactly? "I can't change who I am. I can't throw everything I've been until today."

For Franziska knew that beseeching look in his eyes: _It's not over yet; follow that path _I_ have chosen. _But… she couldn't. The teachings that she had followed since her childhood may have been wrong, but she just couldn't conceive a different way, couldn't visualize a different path other than loneliness. Destined to walk the prosecutorial path alone, and destined to leave it in solitude.

But Miles Edgeworth surprised her with an odd look in his eyes, as if he were weighing her up. "I believe you can," he stated firmly, a faint smile etched in the lines of his wearied face. "Just like how Adrian Andrews did."

"Adrian Andrews…?" But she wasn't anything like that weak woman who relied on everybody else, Franziska felt sure.

"You were going to use her during the trial, right?" Miles said, with little anger in his eyes. Such a simple statement of fact that it didn't even remotely seem like a question. "But you… You were 'dependant' on your father by using his tactics." Now, the man looked stern, and directed a glare in her direction. "Isn't that right?"

She glared back to hide the old pain that threatened to show. "Hmph!"

Murderer he may have been, and a poor father at that, but… Manfred von Karma had been _her_ father. Her genius father, the man she'd been proud to have as her father because he was perfection personified.

"Today, you chased after me, after I had left you behind all these years."

So, he knew. He knew how lonely she had been, no one to talk to, to boast to.

"And that's why we're standing here now, side by side."

Side by side? An… an equal? But Franziska had thought she'd lost sight of him; he was too fast, and she wasn't quick enough. "…!"

"But I have no intention of stopping." Of course. That was Miles Edgeworth through and through. Franziska felt a grin spread through her face, as her mind shouted _Bring it on!_

Then she remembered.

"If you say you are going to quit your walk down the prosecutor's path…" His glare slowly faded, and he instead looked down upon her, his eyes filled with… disappointment? "…Then this is where we part ways, Franziska von Karma."

Her surname ripped something inside her—still a von Karma, or just plain Franziska?

She narrowed her eyes at him. "…"

Quit, after all these years, chasing him desperately like a little lost girl, and he wouldn't spare her a glance, he wouldn't acknowledge her presence, hadn't she grown strong enough? Hadn't she grown worthy? Hadn't she put in all her effort, running to catch up, hadn't she earned some recognition? She couldn't quit, not then, Franziska realized, and quitting was such a stupid, foolish, so-called 'answer' to her failures that she could have whipped herself. Quitting, after losing against Phoenix Wright? After a few failures? Disregarding her perfect track record, throwing away everything she'd earned… And now Miles was staring at her in an expression between disgust, hate, pity, sorrow, grief—she'd show him! There was no way… no way she was giving up…

And it all crashed upon her—the darkness came upon her in a mix of emotions, _revenge, revenge_, and it was this thirst of revenge that would propel her to beat Miles Edgeworth—and after so long, the eternity spent running, chasing, whipping, wallowing, studying, _trying_, working, prosecuting, persevering, and _never, ever stopping for a break_—she finally broke.

It wasn't that she had never shed tears before.

It was that sobbing _in front_ of someone was a sign of weakness, and her greatest fear was that people would discover her weaknesses behind the mask of perfection.

But she betrayed herself, and cried anyway, her face morphing into the ugly, undesirable kind that wobbles and occurs when weeping takes place.

"… I… I… I am Franziska von Karma. Don't think I'm going to walk in your shadow forever… Our battle… begins now… so you had better prepare yourself, Miles Edgeworth!"

Miles' expression was one of surprise, and then a trademark smirk unfolded on his face. Accepting her challenge. But even as she glared through her tears, she sensed a fresh wave coming, and couldn't bear to stay—she had to keep running, after all.

Miles disappeared into the distance, as an understanding smile lifted his face, and she could've sworn he chuckled gently. Franziska kicked up the dust, running into the plane at full speed, tears sparkling into the air behind her.

_Just you wait… Miles Edgeworth._

As she settled down into her seat, her wracking sobs muted into hiccups, as she struggled to retain her composure, turning her thoughts to others subjects.

Ah, she had almost forgotten. Franziska withdrew the trench coat from her bag, and dug out the last piece of evidence from the bag. Then, between hiccups, she began to speak, more to the card than anything else.

"Phoenix Wright… One day… Someday… I'm sure we'll meet again in battle," she whispered confidently. "Until then… This last piece of evidence that never made it to you… I'll take good care of this fourth piece," she promised, then looked up with a challenging and aloof gaze that all who knew her would recognize, glaring through the thin screen moisture in her eyes. "So I can give it to you… when at last we meet again…"

For the piece was evidence was a simple card—a calling card—with an emblem of a pink shell. It seemed the hostage, Maya, and taken to drawing the features of a certain man in profile, finally adding the distinguishable spiked hair of a certain attorney. And if that wasn't enough, the name 'Nick' was scrawled across the corner.

The blue haired woman twirled the card in her hand.

_Rest assured, Phoenix Wright, I will return to America, not only to meet my little brother, but you as well. And when I do, be prepared for a greeting you will never forget._

Franziska tightened her grip around the leather whip.

Yes, she would return to America. But till then, she would remain in Germany, running, sprinting as fast as she could, because she wouldn't be in the shadow of Miles Edgeworth much longer.

No, Franziska von Karma would _not_ be standing still.

Franziska von Karma would be running, as fast as she could, and faster—then Miles Edgeworth would see what had become of the little girl he had left behind

A/N _Fin._ I do know that Edgey isn't Franziska's 'little brother', but ingame, she does call him that. Also, I apologize if there were any pairings hinted at, because I am actually a Franziska/Edgeworth shipper, and since Edgey was a big part of this oneshot, I wasn't sure if I remained totally impartial. Rest assured, this fic was intended to be free of any ships. I particularly enjoyed writing the Franziska-Edgeworth conversation that takes place right after JFA, in the ending. I really liked interpreting it in my own way; even the part where it shows Franziska on the plane. I noticed she was speaking with a lot of pauses, so decided to add the bit that she was still semi-crying, so she was choking a lot. I personally thought it was quite interesting; it let me get a lot more insight into it all. Truth be told, I had to edit the whole fic after writing the airport scene, to include the things Franziska ranted about to Edgeworth. It became a little tiresome to keep writing 'Miles Edgeworth' in full, so I decided to shorten it sometimes to 'Miles', because she _does_ call him 'Miles' in AAI. 

Franny does a lot less whipping, mostly due to being just returned her whip. But she also does a lot less 'foolishly foolish fools', something which I think I ought to have added in some more, but her thoughts and feelings just spilled out, so I really couldn't fit much in. I have written one other fic about Franziska; well, not a complete fic. It's part of my collection, called **Fears**, which basically states all the characters' fears, including Franziska's own, which I mentioned briefly in this fic. You guys could take a look at that, too. I would usually write Franziska's full name more often, but you may have noticed I only did so once in the middle, and twice at the end. That's because Franziska was conflicted about being a von Karma and everything. Also, I had some bits in brackets and italics—except, right at the end, it was just italics. It was intended to show how Franziska became more accepting, maybe even more open.

Er… Long Author's Note, I guess.

So, thoughts? And when I say thoughts, I mean reviews.


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